In the quietest folds of a forgotten weekend, stories linger just beneath the surface, painted with invisible ink. They whisper, if you dare listen closely. Shadows dance, tracing the outlines of words that only daylight can unfold.
An old clock ticks irregularly, marking moments not with hours but with memories. Each tick is a murmur, each tock a shadow, caressing the edges of reality and dreams. Time is but a voyeur here, peering through the curtains of the mundane.
The air is thick with unspoken histories, waiting for curious hands to brush 'em into visibility. A tale of a long-lost traveler intertwines with the hum of the universe—a story of echoes, of footsteps on paths forgotten, of skies painted in colors unseen.